


Chartreuse (Suit Up)

by bactaqueen



Series: Shades of Green [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Mentioned Bucky Barnes, Nipple Clamps, Suit Porn, alien punching, bucky being a little shit of a friend though it's great, buttplug, cockring, mentioned Carol, mentioned Rhodey, pure spite fic, reader as non-pov character, steve and bucky being friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 17:54:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7855180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve's night in gets interrupted by an alien invasion, but with a little help from his friend, he makes it back home to you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chartreuse (Suit Up)

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction. Recognizable characters belong to their respective owners. No profit is earned and no infringement is intended.
> 
>  **Author's Note:** We're all just lucky this didn't feature Reader tossing Steve's salad, because it almost did.

You looked up at him through your lashes and held up the afternoon's entertainment. The ring over your thumb, the length of leather and the shiny buckle draped from it and the chain and little clamps looped around to dangle from your palm, and you presented the plug, tapered end up, held delicately between your fingertips. It might as well have been in a velvet box for all the excitement it offered. You bit your lip, trying to fight a smile; he knew that look. He _loved_ that look. And what was he going to say? _No_? He was bad at _no_ under the best of circumstances, so under these...

“Under the uniform?” He was breathless and would have flushed if all the blood from his head wasn't already on its way to his cock.

You nodded at him. Stopped biting your plumped pink lips and smiled. You said, “And take out that cup. I want to _see_.”

He licked his lips and swallowed, his eyes darting from the plug to your glittering eyes. “Are you gonna put it in for me?”

“And on,” you confirmed.

He squeezed his dick through his jeans. Had to, or he was going to come untouched inside his pants, and he could think of much better places to come. He said, “Yes,” in a breathless rush.

You reached for him, slipped a finger into one of his front belt loops and tugged him close. “Take your clothes off.”

Yes, absolutely. But first he stole a kiss. Your mouth was just _there_ , red and wet and so close, he _had_ to. When you lifted into the kiss and swayed into him, he whimpered and leaned in. He wanted his arms around you and—

You pulled back and tapped his hip. “Go on. Naked, on the bed. I'll get the lube.”

“Yes, ma'am,” slipped out before he could stop it. Not that he would have; he liked the way it made you smirk. He scrambled to get his shirt off and his jeans and shorts down, and too late, realized he probably should have taken his boots off first. He twisted so when he fell he could do it across the bed, then lifted his legs to yank his boots off. He threw them across the room and they hit the wall, one at a time, _thump thump_ , before bouncing back to the floor.

Your laughter floated in ahead of you as you came back from the bathroom.

Finally naked, Steve rolled over and crawled up the bed. He grabbed one of the pillows to hug to his chest and bury his face in, drawing his knees up underneath himself and spreading them so you had _access_.

The bed dipped; you settled on your heels between his ankles. He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath when you rubbed his flank and walked your fingers up over his ass.

“Words,” you demanded.

He nearly laughed. He was a mnemonist, he'd held on to entire maps of enemy movement, he could handle a few safewords. Laugh swallowed, he said, “Red. Yellow. Green.” A stoplight for sex.

“Good man.” Your massaging fingers slipped into the crack of his ass.

Steve bit the pillow to keep from groaning and begging.

You brushed fingers from the small of his back straight down to right up behind his balls, and there was nothing he could do about the long deep moan or the involuntary spread of his thighs or the way his back seemed to arch without any input from him. The tip of your finger circled his hole and he nearly sobbed with relief.

Then there came the slick chill of the lube and he gasped.

“I'm sorry,” you said with feeling. You cupped his balls gently and ran your thumb along the seam, near his body. “I tried to warm it up.” You pushed your finger in to the first knuckle.

“'S all right.” He felt himself going boneless and fought to keep his knees under him. He rocked back, greedy for more than just that gentle breach. “Like it.”

Your hand slid up from his balls until you were gripping his asscheek, spreading it away from the other, giving yourself room to work. You hummed approvingly. He knew you wanted to say something smart, something snarky; he loved that. But you didn't, and he loved _that_ , too, because you let him stay inside his head.

Where it was good.

Your small, short fingers were easy to take. And you made it so good, lots of lube, gentle touches, long slow thrusting probes, one finger, two, three. He could take the plug you'd picked with no prep; this was courtesy, foreplay, driving the noisy thoughts from his brain and driving him out of his skin.

You curved your fingers and pressed down inside him. From faraway, he heard himself groaning, “Oh, God.” His arms tightened around the pillow and his toes curled. He panted.

“Uh-uh,” you said, with the fingers not inside him stroking along the curve of his ass, along the crease between his ass and his thigh, and his sensitivity there always shocked him. You kissed the small of his back. “Don't come yet.”

The breath rushed out of him. He felt dizzy. “I don't—”

“You can.” Your fingers slipped out of him and he moaned in protest. “You _will_.”

He nodded furiously into the pillow. Yes, all right, he could do that. He could wait.

Maybe.

The stiff silicone tip of the plug probed at him and he held his breath. You pushed it in, slow, and the stretch of it, the pressure of it inside when you got it settled, made him lightheaded. It burned in the best way, awareness in his nerves and in his blood. You tugged to check the position, slid it back into place. He keened.

You squeezed his flank. “All right, roll over.”

There was more. He'd forgotten about the rest. He almost didn't want to roll over, the fullness, the weight, it was so delicious. He wondered what you'd say if he just asked you to—

Your clean fingers closed around his cock and he gasped. You gave him two quick strokes.

“I think I gave you an order, soldier.”

The amusement in your voice made him laugh, high and breathless, and he rolled over, whimpering as his ass touched the bed and jostled the plug inside him. But your fingers on his upper thigh, over his hip, killed the laughter.

And he _definitely_ wasn't laughing when you wrapped fingers around his cock and touched your tongue to the dripping head of it.

He tossed his head back and closed his eyes and held the bedspread like his life depended on it when you opened your mouth and sucked him down. _Oh, God..._

Then you _pulled away_ and he whimpered in protest.

“I promise you'll like the other stuff better,” you told him, voice low and rough in the way it always got when you'd had his cock in your mouth.

He just groaned wordlessly.

You cupped his balls and held them snug, but not painfully so, against the base of his dick. When you clicked the cockring into place, he bit his lip and whimpered.

“Shh.” You stroked his skin, thumb along his hipbone, fingers angled in and nails scraped along the line of his pubic hair. “Can you take more?”

“I can do this all day,” he quipped. The breathy quality of his voice contradicted the confident delivery, but he trusted you not to call him on it.

You hummed. “I might hold you to that.”

Oh, God. For a moment, he couldn't remember how to breathe. You could keep him here on the edge all day, keep him close, make him mindless. You could do that, and he could let you.

You stroked up his hip, higher along his side. He felt the tug on the cockring; the very tips of the nipple clamps at the ends of the split chain buckled into the leather strap attached to it grazed up his abs, higher. One of them circled a nipple, and without thought, he thrust his chest up.

“You look so good.”

His back arched, his hips rolled, and he thrust his chest and his hips up again. Your hand curved around his hip, pushing him down, and he heard your sigh.

“ _So_ good.”

The clamp pinched down on his nipple. He choked, started to tremble.

“Too much?” He heard the worry in your voice.

“No,” he said, and colors flashed behind his eyelids as he remembered. “Green. Really green. Lime. Chartreuse. Harlequin.”

You laughed, and it was musical, soothed his nerves. The second clamp pinched his other nipple and he was nothing but a mass of singing, screaming, overloaded nerve endings, and too late, he realized he hadn't asked what _you_ wanted out of this.

Your hands cupped his hips and you leaned over him. The weight of you was grounding comfort, made it so he could focus on what you asked.

“You ready to suit up?”

He didn't want to _move_. He wanted you to take your pants off and sit on his face and pull on the chain and then sit on his cock and maybe keep that up until he couldn't feel or taste or remember anything but you...

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat and took a few slow, deep breaths. “Yeah.” He shifted.

You leaned back, taking your hands off of him, and let him swing his legs off the bed. He sat up, and had to close his eyes against the stars exploding in front of him.

“Oh, God.”

You laughed. You leaned in and kissed the edge of his mouth. “Hurry, and I'll make it worth your while.”

“I could skip the suit and you could make it worth my while _now_...” He tried to lean in, tried to chase your mouth for another kiss. He'd have reached for you, but his hands weren't listening to his brain.

You smiled sweetly at him. “No deal, Cap.”

“Had to try,” he mumbled.

You took pity on him. Probably because he was sweating and his hair was starting to look sad. You kissed him, light, and reminded him, “No cup,” lips moving against his.

As if he could even wrestle his erection into the damn cup. Getting it behind the fly of the pants was going to be difficult enough.

“No cup,” he agreed.

He took a deep breath and stood up.

He hadn't fainted in a long, long time, but it was a near thing when he took his first step. He swayed.

“Green,” he said automatically. He didn't need blood in his brain to get dressed, and he knew you'd see the uncertainty in his step. He took another deep breath, and standing up, that pulled on the clamps and on the cockring. He bit back a moan. “I'm gonna suit up.”

“You do that, sweetheart.”

He almost laughed.

There was a suit in the bathroom, hanging up on the back of the door. It was a struggle to get it on; bending over to get the pants on wasn't so bad, but standing up to get the top on was... well, it had him moaning and shuddering and squeezing the head of his dick to keep from coming all over himself. He put a hand on the edge of the counter and bent over to keep the pressure off his nipples and his cock and just spend a few moments trying to pull himself together.

“You better not be jacking off in there!”

He groaned. “I'm not comin' 'til I'm inside you!” he called back.

You laughed. “Got a while to wait for that, darling.”

Unfair. It was unfair.

The boots were easy. There were no laces, but the weight of them was reassuring. The gloves were good, too, but mostly because he imagined his hands against your thighs in them, imagined his bare fingers spreading the lips of your cunt open.

He opened the bathroom door and stepped back into the bedroom. You were sitting on the bed, one hand between your thighs pressed tight together, one hand gripping the edge of the bed. Your eyes swept over him and he felt fucking _naked_ in the suit, knowing you knew what he had on under it, watching your eyes linger at the unmistakable bulge behind the fly of his pants.

He hooked his thumbs into the belt, pushed his shoulders back (resisting the urge to moan, _damn_ ) and tried to look like Captain America.

He thought he must have succeeded. Your face lit up and your lips parted, but before you could say anything, bright white light flooded through the drapes covering the big windows.

The comm in his suit crackled to life. “Come out and play, Cap. We have aliens to punch.”

Your face fell. Panic snaked through him.

You whispered, “Can you get rid of it all?”

He didn't have time. Natasha would already have checked the sensors; she knew he had the suit on. He crossed the room in quick strides and leaned over you, cupping the side of your face, pushing his fingertips into your hair. “I will be back as soon as I can,” he murmured. “Don't go anywhere.”

“Steve—”

Your worry was touching. He kissed you quickly. “I'll be fine. I'm a captain.” He flashed you a smile.

Then he was on the other side of the bed, shoving aside the curtains and yanking up the lower sash. He ducked through the window and stepped out onto the ledge as Sharon maneuvered the Lola 2 close enough to the building for him to leap into the backseat.

He landed with a very unmanly whimper, and as Sharon sped away from his building, leaving you—and his bed, and his fun, and some of his dignity—behind.

 

***

 

He punched through another alien skull, goopy blood and sticky brain matter clinging to his glove. He fought like a man possessed, with none of the elegance and finesse he'd tried so hard to cultivate. This was a brawl and he was winning.

Bucky's voice buzzed low in his ear on their private channel. “Got a bee in your bonnet, Steve?”

“Nope. Buttplug,” he said, and punched another creepy gray alien so hard he _heard_ the exoskeleton fracture. He'd managed to unbuckle the nipple clamps from the cockring, but he hadn't been able to take any of it off. Nat's eyes hadn't left his crotch the whole flight in; he was pretty sure she _knew_ , and he was reasonably certain she'd told Bucky. Maybe Sharon, too, if her little smirk had been anything to judge by.

Bucky barked a laugh.

Steve threw himself at another alien and used the shield to decapitate it. He twisted back as he yanked the shield out of the concrete behind it. Blood spattered his neck, anyway. He put an edge into his voice. “I'm serious, Buck, I need to go home.”

That seemed to sober Bucky.

The next two aliens went down before Steve could even bring the shield up, clean sniper shots straight through craniums, the second one falling before the first one even hit the ground.

“Don't worry, buddy. I'll get you home.”

 

***

 

Carol and Rhodey and Maria _wanted a team debriefing_.

That was it. The Depression, his big mouth, World War II, crashing a science fiction plane into the frigid north Atlantic, Chitauri, HYDRA, murderbots, and being an outlaw, and this was the thing that would kill him. _Here lies Steve Rogers, dead from sexual frustration. And a buttplug._

Bucky piped up. “That'll have to wait, Steve's gotta get home.”

Steve shot him a look, half-mortified and half-relieved.

Rhodey raised an eyebrow at him. The faceplate of the suit was flipped up, but his face was still shiny with sweat, and he was developing a hell of a shiner from where one particularly determined alien had headbutted him.

“We all wanna get home, Cap, but--”

Bucky shook his head. “It's a personal emergency, Colonel. I have to insist.”

“What, Cap can't speak for himself?” Carol was smirking at him.

 _Damn it._ Natasha had probably told on him. He couldn't trust her with any of his secrets!

Steve cleared his throat. “Personal emergency. Gotta go home.”

Maria sighed heavily over the comm. _Nobody pays me enough to babysit these super children_ was clear in every syllable when she said, “Fine. _Fine._ But I want you in by 0500 tomorrow.”

Steve frowned. It was already nearly ten, that wasn't nearly enough time for what you had planned, he was sure.

Bucky stifled a laugh. “Might wanna make that 0900, Ms. Hill.”

Steve shoved him with his shoulder. Now they really would all know, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Maybe he was past the point of caring, though. With the adrenaline of battle fading, things were starting to get interesting in his suit again.

“I suppose you'll be going home with him, Sergeant Barnes?”

“Nah.” Bucky grinned at Carol, jaunty and cocky and insufferably charming. “I'm just gonna drop him off. I'll be back to do _my_ paperwork.”

Steve glowered at Bucky.

Bucky laughed.

He was still laughing when he slid onto his bike. He'd parked it three blocks away. Steve was torn between being impressed with his foresight and suddenly aware of what would happen if he straddled that growling engine.

“Uh,” Steve said. He shifted his weight, very, very aware of the shift of the plug inside him. “I think I'll just take the train, Buck.”

“At this hour?” Bucky revved the engine. “Your girl'd never forgive me. Hop on.” He grinned the biggest shiteating grin Steve had seen since 1940.

“I hate you,” he said, with feeling. He tossed a leg over the back of the bike and settled onto the pillion, strangled breath dying in his throat and low whine bitten off. “You're a real jerk.”

Bucky revved the engine again, sending a thrum through the bike and Steve that was impossible to ignore.

“Oh, _fuck_.”

“Not me, you won't, pal. Hang on.”

Steve wasn't going to. Holding onto Bucky would put too much pressure on the nipple clamps, bring his hard cock in direct contact with the small of Bucky's back and there'd be no living it down. But Bucky apparently thought things like “speed limits” and “lanes” were merely suggestions.

It wasn't like he could complain, though. He got him home to you in record time.

Bucky grinned at him as Steve climbed gingerly off the bike. “Tell her I said hi and don't go easy on you.”

“I hate you,” he said again, but only because his knees were shaking too much for him to remember “thanks.”

“I know you do. See you later.”

Steve didn't even stand on the sidewalk to watch Bucky zoom off into the night. He'd have scaled the building if it would have gotten him home any faster.

 

***

 

Stepping into his apartment was like throwing a switch. What had been a low, steady, aching thrum of arousal became all-encompassing, sharp, tipping over the line from pleasure to pain in the best way.

You appeared at the end of the entryway and the only thing he knew was _need_.

“How'd it go?”

 _How the fuck did what go?_ His neighbors were going to complain about the stomping. He'd never been so determined to get to you. Never picked you up like that without your permission (invitation, hooking your arms around his shoulders and jumping). Certainly he'd never shoved you against the wall and pressed himself tight between your legs and looked you dead in the eye and didn't even manage a request, just a demand.

Half of a demand at that. “I need,” he said.

You pushed your fingers into his hair and rolled your hips. Your eyes were wide and dark and your mouth was open just enough for him to catch a glimpse of your wet pink tongue and think about what he'd really like for that tongue to be doing instead of asking questions.

“You're still...?”

He nodded.

Your fingers curled against the back of his head, gripping a handful of his dirty hair. You held your mouth near his. “Not 'til I do,” you breathed.

He whimpered.

You covered one of his hands with your own and brought it down between your bodies. “Shouldn't take you long,” you said, and kissed the edge of his mouth. “If you're good.”

 _If I'm good_ , he thought. He opened your jeans and slipped his fingers into your panties. _I'll show you just how good I can be._


End file.
